Ragged sobs burst from my chest as I claw at the window. There are no handles from this side, and I’m not even sure if there’s a way to open it, but that doesn’t stop me from trying. I scratch at the window frame.
“Sylv.” Fareed’s strong hands guide mine away from the glass. He is so close, it makes me want to lash out, but he holds me while I struggle—against his hands, against the window, against everything that keeps me from my brother.
I struggle against his voice too. I won’t listen. I don’t want to hear what he has to say.
Fareed does not take that into account though. “Tomás knows what he’s doing. He wanted—”
“Don’t you dare,” I cut him off. “Don’t tell me what he wanted to do or that everything might be fine.”
“He would not have wanted you to go back inside!”
“I can’t stay out.” I shake my head. I can’t stop shaking my head. “I won’t leave the classroom, I promise. But I can’t stay here. I can’t stay here.”
I look down, and it’s as if the ground twists and turns under my feet, as if the school is trying to shake us off. Fareed loosens his grip a little, and I sink to the roof. My arms shake. The shingles chafe my knees.
In front of us, a chopper circles, and someone in a black uniform calls to us. The noise distorts his words, and it’s impossible to understand him.
I push further into myself while Fareed’s hands fall away. He edges toward the helicopter, shouting back to the officer.
With Fareed distracted, I stand and try to push the window open again. We opened this. Tomás didn’t lock it. I should be able to open it again. I have to. The vinyl of the frame is too smooth to give me a good grip, but the window gives way. An inch, just an inch.
Fareed turns to me and tries to stop me, but once my grip is solid, the rest is easy. I pull myself up and launch myself through the open window, escaping his grasp and diving headlong toward the floor.
I scramble to my feet and close the window to block the sound and Fareed when the silence stops me in my tracks. It’s terrifying.
On the other side of the door, gunshots echo through the hallway.
One.
Two.
Three.
Tyler’s unmistakable voice. “I win.”
Jay Eyck
@JEyck32
No words for today. Mb there never will be. #OHS
10:45 AM
Abby Smith
@YetAnotherASmith
@JEyck32 I’m so sorry. #OHS
10:45 AM
Family North
@FamNorthOpp
@JEyck32 We’re praying for you. #OHS
10:45 AM
Father Williams
@SacredHeartOpportunity
@FamNorthOpp @JEyck32 We’ll hold a candle mass tonight. All are welcome.
10:45 AM
Chapter Twenty-Two
10:46–10:47 A.M.
SYLV
A blanket of gray covers Opportunity. Tomás loved days like these. Even though he hated work on the farm, he loved going outside when the sky was overcast. When we still had horses, he would stay in the stables to sit out the storm; then he would saddle one of the mares and ride off as soon as the sky cleared, the thick smell of ozone still heavy in the air.
After Mamá’s diagnosis, he wouldn’t wait for the rain to clear. When we sold the horses, he’d go running as soon as the first drops of rain pelted the windows, and he’d come back soaking wet and happy.
Abuelo complained about it all the time. “He’ll catch his death,” he said. “He goes running toward it like an old friend, and it will embrace him before he knows.”
Tomás always shrugged off these comments. “I’m running with the wind,” he’d say. “And no one will ever catch me. Not even death.”
I sag against the wall, and another bang shakes my memories. I tell myself that was all it was—thunder. A storm come to sweep him off his feet.
Come to make him fly.
• • •
CLAIRE
“I don’t know where Rae is. She was sitting next to me when the doors opened, but when we ran, I lost track of her. Has she been here?” The girl in front of me trembles. Her blond hair is matted against her forehead.
The officer next to me flicks through pages of notes, but he comes up with nothing. “We have vans to take you to the emergency center in Opportunity. If she makes it out, you’ll see her there.”
“What do you mean ‘if’?” Her voice cracks, but she is gently led away and another student gives his name with a steady voice.
“Steve Jackson.” He has black hair, wears black clothes. Although Steve’s a junior, he’s in some of my classes. His little sister is on my drill team. I want to ask him about her, the determined, mousy-haired girl who became the backbone of our group. She planned to start a color guard troop on campus. We were supposed to have coffee this week to talk about organizing it.
I want to ask him about her, but I don’t have to. Apparently, we all have the same questions in our eyes. What have you seen? Who have you lost? What can you tell us?
“I don’t know where CJ is,” he says quietly. He wipes at his eyes, leaving a smudge of black eyeliner on his cheeks before he’s led to a van that will shuttle him to the center in Opportunity.
They keep on coming, students and the occasional teacher or staff member, each with their own stories of the lost and questions about the missing. And all we can do—all we must do—is listen and be supportive.
“I know she’s still alive. She has to be. We were planning to go to Europe together this summer. Just us and our backpacks. London, Paris, Rome. We are going to visit Big Ben and picnic in front of the Eiffel Tower and see the Colosseum. She wanted to go to Berlin too. Her family is originally from Germany, you know? She wanted—”
“He shot him right in front of me. The bullet went through his neck. There was so much blood. Will you tell his parents? What did he want with us? What did we ever do to him?”
“I don’t know where she is.”
After another group of students leaves and we’re left waiting, I sink into a chair. My heart is empty, and my head is full. The stories tumble over one another. We’re grief counselors simply because we’re there. I can understand why Deputy Lee did not want us here. I never realized that courage was so terrifying.
But even if the stories are horrific, everyone coming through our tent shares a common understanding.
It fills our emptiness.
Strong arms wrap themselves around me as Chris pulls me into a hug. His heartbeat thumps against my cheek. I place my hand on the nape of his neck, tracing his goose bumps. His hands trail from my shoulders to my ears as he pushes a strand of hair out of the way.
“You are so brave,” Chris’s voice rumbles, deep and low.
• • •
AUTUMN
This floor covers only a third of the school’s first floor. Even so, the corridor feels like it goes on forever. The doors on either side of the hallway are closed. I stay close to the wall. Voices from downstairs float up, the clipped commands of freedom and safety, of SWAT officers filtering into the school.
This hallway seems untouched by the violence below. But on closer inspection, I see bullets have drilled themselves into wooden doors and the cinderblock walls.
At least here are no bodies. No Sylv. I hope they made it to the roof.
At the corner, I crouch low and peek around it. Ty stands in the center of the hallway, and he swings his gun wildly.
“You won’t get in my way again,” he rants. “You won’t stop me from showing your sister her place. You are too late. Do you hear that? You’ve lost.”
I inch closer to see who he’s talking to, only to come to a full stop when the scene unfolds in front of me.
To
más’s prone body lies at Tyler’s feet.
The Adventures of Mei
Current location: Opportunity High
>> Whenever we see survivors, there is a sparkle of hope. Maybe our friends, maybe our loved ones are coming too. If we hold hands, we can form a safety net for those who are still wandering and lost. Like when Mrs. Morales arrived with her father. She’s rarely out in public anymore. There was such a frantic look in her eyes, but someone brought her tea, the colonel’s wife came to stand next to her and whispered soothing words, and everyone formed a circle around her. Dad always cared so much about common humanity—that was why he became a teacher. I hope he found it inside. I think he’ll find it here.
If he gets out—when he gets out.
Comments:
Chapter Twenty-Three
10:47–10:48 A.M.
AUTUMN
My breath catches. The sound startles Ty. He pivots to face me. “What are you doing here?” he demands.
The bitterness in his voice is palpable. I stare past him at Tomás, who lies on the ground. Ignoring the gun, I slide past my brother and crouch next to Tomás’s body to close his unseeing eyes.
“There are SWAT teams downstairs,” I say. “It’s only a matter of time before they’re here. It’s over.” You lost, I want to add, but I know better than that. It would only anger him more. Besides, if anyone lost, it’s us. It’s Opportunity. It’s Sylv, who can’t be far off if Tomás is—was—here. “Give it up, Tyler.”
He doesn’t respond, but at least he hasn’t shot me yet.
The gun hangs useless by Ty’s side. This time, however, I don’t try to advance on him.
“You know, after Mom died, apart from Sylv, you were the only one to ever see me dance. You know the ballet shoe charm you bought me for my birthday last year?” I keep my eyes down as I show him the bracelet around my wrist, blood smudged on the silver. “I’ve never taken it off.”
In the distance, the sound of boots—slow, careful, on the lookout for traps—comes from the stairs. Coming closer.
When Ty’s hand brushes my wrist, my voice trips. “I planned to wear it to my audition. You were always with me. You are always with me. You never had to be alone, Ty.”
• • •
CLAIRE
With the exodus of students comes more news of the dead.
The young officer sitting to the side of the tent records their names. We’re not supposed to hear them. The report is part of the crime scene, and as long as the bodies haven’t been retrieved and verified, their deaths are not official.
Though that will be of little comfort to the parents—or to Chris and me. We all hear the names and recognize too many of them.
A current passes through the crowd with the news of each survivor. Relief and sorrow follow each other rapidly, because with the names of those who live comes the void of those who have not. Death brings life; life brings death.
There are no words in that fleeting moment between hope and the knowledge. There is no way to express how a heart can burst and break at the same time, how the sun can cut through the darkness but will cast shadows everywhere.
There are only fingers that entwine with another’s, arms that link in solidarity.
With every new name, someone breaks down and someone else holds them up. At the entrance to the student parking lot, police officers inform parents and families to report to Opportunity’s church for further processing and possible questioning. But few of them leave. Instead they stay here, together. And even if they sought comfort elsewhere, we’d all know where to find whomever we needed. Opportunity is no place for secrets. Not anymore. Not after today.
We are home.
• • •
SYLV
Autumn’s voice swirls around me, just out of reach. SWAT teams upstairs. Police outside, I repeat in my mind.
It’s over.
It’s over.
Madre de Dios, I hope she’s right. But it’s so, so impossible to believe. With all that has happened, today won’t be over. Today will never be over again.
If only Tomás had waited a few minutes longer—
Fareed slips in through the window, and I expect him to try to pull me out to the roof again.
I cradle my knees to my chest and shake my head.
His shoulders drop. Fareed sags down next to me against the wall. He wraps an arm around my shoulders, and I lean against him. We don’t make a sound. I listen to Autumn try to reason with Tyler. Please listen. Please end this.
“Everyone I’ve loved,” I whisper. “Everyone I love is slipping through my fingers.”
Fareed bows his head. “For the first few weeks after we came here, my father would tell me the same thing every night: You can’t always keep your loved ones with you. You can’t always settle your life in one place. The world was made to change. But as long as you cherish the memories and make new ones along on the way, no matter where you are, you’ll always be at home.”
Jay Eyck
@JEyck32
I don’t know what to do now. We’re all waiting. #OHS
10:47 AM
134 favorites 150 retweets
Chapter Twenty-Four
10:48–10:50 A.M.
SYLV
Fareed reminds me of something Mamá once told me—and that only makes the pain worse.
When Autumn first began wearing Tyler’s charm, the only telltale sign that she was already working on an application to Juilliard, she had a soft light in her eyes and a faint blush on her cheeks. She was so proud of it. She said it was the first real acknowledgment she’d had since her mom died that someone understood what dancing meant to her, and it mocked me. I remember running home from school that day, needing space to be by myself. Mamá sat on the porch outside. She’d made tea for the both of us, and although it was black enough to be coffee and the cookies she dug up were stale, she smiled.
“How was school, niña?”
Seeing her matted curls around her face and her hands sitting calmly on her lap, I forgot about the charm and Tyler. Instead, I dropped my bag and sat down on the porch next to her.
“School was good, Mamá,” I said. “I sent in my college application.”
“I’m so proud of you.” She always said that even though her lucid days were few and far between. “You and your brothers, you’ll make something of your lives.”
She didn’t protest when my brothers came home to care for her, all of us taking turns, but she took notice. And she cared that Tomás and I went to college more than any of us, especially these last few months.
I nibbled on a chocolate chip cookie. “Yes, Mamá.”
“Just don’t forget where you came from. Don’t forget the stories of our family.”
“No, Mamá.” My replies came automatically because I wanted her to keep talking. We didn’t need to have deep and meaningful conversations. It was special to simply sit with her and talk about the mundane things—school, homework, the future.
But she was perceptive that day, and she raised an eyebrow. “Don’t take that tone with me, young lady.” Then she laughed, the sound all throaty and warm. She laughed as if it were the funniest thing in the world. Giggles rose in my chest until I couldn’t hold on to them any longer, and I snorted out my tea, hiccupping and laughing at the same time.
“No, Mamá.”
That set her off all over again. Abuelo pulled up the driveway and sat there in the truck, his window rolled down, staring at us as if we’d both gone mad. We couldn’t stop laughing. And it healed a rift between us, all the words unspoken and forgotten.
A few minutes after Abuelo went into the house, Mamá stilled. “I’ll miss you, my wonderful daughter. I wish I could stay with you forever, to see you grow into the woman I always knew you would be. You are so strong, but promise me you wil
l take care of your brothers.”
I laid my head on her lap, and she stroked my hair. I promised, “Always, Mamá.”
Always.
“Far?” I sit up, although I don’t meet his eyes. “How do I explain to Mamá that Tomás isn’t coming home?”
He doesn’t have an answer to that. Neither do I.
• • •
CLAIRE
Although the idea of setting up an emergency center where students and families can be reunited is good in theory, it turns out to be mostly impractical, as those students pass their families to get to the main road.
Many are intercepted—and reunited—before they even reach the vans. There is nothing better than seeing smiles and happy tears, especially when SWAT officers return with another group of students. They signal that more students are on their way, not far behind, and wild hope whispers through the crowd. Part of me is still waiting for Matt to walk out too.
Except for every student present, the ghost of another student haunts us. With every tally mark, the dead creep closer.
“Sarge!”
A voice rises above the others and makes my heart jump. Leading a group of the rescued students is CJ.
“You don’t know how often I’ve wished to be a tracky today,” she says as she wraps her arms around me. She tries to make light of it, but there’s a trace of bitterness. I can’t imagine all she’s seen.
She stands tall. Her hair is still neatly braided, her clothes impeccable, but her eyeliner is running. And with every word she speaks, her mood grows darker. “I wish I had one of our drill guns. I could have knocked him out. Or at least I could have tried. I should have—I’m so sorry—” Fierce, unbreakable CJ breaks. “All those deaths. How could it happen here? Why couldn’t we stop it?”
I don’t have an answer, but I reach out to take her hand. “If you could have done anything, I know you would have. Steve is looking for you. He’s at the shelter.”
This Is Where It Ends Page 16